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Sigurdur marched on to the south with what remained of his band of warriors. Any schoolboy in The Empire could tell you it was the spring of 2522, but in the frozen wastes north of Karag Dum the only concept of time was the constant crunch of the frozen earth beneath their boots. The sun had just risen over the distant peaks and in it's mesmerizing dance with the drifting snow it flashed painfully and repeatedly into the skulls of the heavily armored norsemen. To witness them you would think nothing in the world could bring them pain or slow their march. Wind and snow whipped their leathery faces and they blinked in time with their footfalls to prevent their eyelids from freezing. Sigurdur remembered his first few long treks as a marauder and the first time his eyes filled with blood. The whole world turned red, proving a welcome distraction from thoughts of ice lined nostrils and the pain in his chest that accompanied every breath of the chill wind. His earlier experience was shared with every man within a hundred miles and this march was no different than the hundred before it leaving nothing to talk about the few times they stopped to make camp. Nothing except their tribe of Kul and the bird beaked god whose worship had earned them exile.
The waxing potency of Chaos began early in Sigurdur's life. As a child he remembered how frivolously the men of his tribe had chosen which of their gods they worshiped. A man would wake up with a runny nose singing the praises of Nurgle, kiss his mistress as only a devotee of Slanesh could do, come home to a dead wife and thank Tzeentch before going off to the hunt as a warrior of Khorn. As the years passed on the winds of chaos blew with ever more strength. The gods began choosing more and more champions and marks of the gods seemed to be on the flesh and armour of every warrior. By the time Sigurdur became a warrior of Tzeentch even the marauders were being blessed with the marks of the chaos gods. Soon the tribes began to split on faction lines and the tribes of Kul were some of the last to feel the devisive nature of their deities. The khornites of Sigurdur's tribe had been kept in check by a powerful sorcerer of Tzeentch in a loose power sharing agreement, but Tzeentch had little use for a sorcerer who refused to allow change to happen. With the only remaining sorcerer of Tzeentch forsaken the khornites were quick to attack the remaining members of his sect. Seeing the will of Tzeentch manifest so obviously on their sorcerer, Sigurdur had led his warriors apart from the tribe hours before the bloody rampage. The blood spilled in honour of the blood god would not be that of him or his men just yet.
Throughout that spring the same scenario played out in dozens of the tribes of Kul. As Sigurdur and his small unit of warriors marched on they were greeted almost daily by yet another exile of yet another tribe. By the time the smell of the hardwood fires burning in the furnaces of Karag Dum reached their noses they had grown to over 50 men and had broken and trained over a dozen warhounds. Almost as many horse had been found wandering the wastes and enough barding had been salavaged to clad all of them. What had been an insignificant group of Tzeentch exiles had grown to a small army. Seeing this army form out of the snows on little more than the will of Sigurdur pleased Tzeentch almost as much as seeing them begin their rampage on the dwarven lands. As a blessing to Sigurdur Tzeentch granted him a vision from each of the other races. In an instant he heard the conversations of men, dwarves and elves. All of them were different, but the theme was the same; change is coming on the winds of chaos and they were afraid. The power of Tzeentch filled him and he was surrounded in a shroud of magic. The ten warriors who left Kul that spring were to be the chosen of Tzeentch and Sigurdur, now a Sorcerer Lord of Tzeentch, was to lead them and the other warriors to ensure they were a force for change. So began the army of The Exiles of Kul.
Last edited by Mrbill; July 15th, 2010 at 21:48.